Wouldn't You?
by infie
Summary: Jo's thoughts on John and meeting the brothers.


Wouldn't You? 

- By Infie

* * *

I knew John Winchester almost my whole life.

I can remember sitting behind the bar, watching the men come in. Tired, angry, hard. Later, I learned they were called 'Hunters'. My dad was one of them. And all I wanted in the whole world was to be just like my Dad.

Until he was gone.

Then, I wanted to be _better_.

Most of the men who came in would ignore me, barely brushing me with their eyes. Honestly, that was a relief, cause these guys, well... they weren't the kind of people you _wanted_ to have look at you, you know? Not that they'd ever have hurt me... no... more, that if you looked into those dead eyes too long, you'd run away just to make that emptiness disappear.

Where was I?

Right.

John.

John was different than most. For one thing, he was a legend, almost the moment he started Hunting. Cold, relentless, absolutely ruthless... nothing got away from John Winchester. For another, he still had family. His boys. The boys he taught to hunt from the moment they could hold a knife.

He'd been at it about four years the first time he came in. I was on the bar, playing with some quarters someone had left as a tip. I was barely old enough to remember people from one day to another, but John made an impression right away. He strode in, jacket around his ears, looking tired and mad and just like everyone else who came through. He looked around the room and saw me on the bar, and just like that, his face changed. He saw me, really saw me.

Of all the hunters who came through that door, John was the only one who ever had kind eyes.

After my dad... died... he'd try and distract me, tell me stories about his boys. Dean, the one holding them all together, the responsible one. Had all the makings of a great Hunter. And Sam, the one with big dreams. The markings of a someone with a normal life, despite how he'd grown up. The sadness in John's eyes was different when he talked about Sam. Those visits made a lot of things all right with us, cause John would talk to Mom too. And during those times, it was almost ok. John was family. I used to ask about when he'd bring his boys to come meet us. He'd smile and tell me in his soft drawl, "If my boys ever come through that door, run the other way, Jo. It'll mean there's something out there bigger and badder than me." Then I would ask him about his hunts, and my Mom would overhear, and she'd drag me away before he could tell me what put those shadows in his eyes.

Naturally that just made me want to do it all even more.

I always though of John's boys as boys. Youngsters. Pre-teens.

Of course, that all changed. All of it. Huge.

A rifle in the back - yeah, ok. That was a bit of a rookie mistake. All I meant to do was poke him... but he was a lot younger than most of the hunters who came through that door, and I was distracted looking at his... uh. Coat. Even as he spoke I knew what was going to come next, and I only got a quick glimpse of wide hazel eyes, classic profile, and crooked smirk before I hit him. I had the briefest instant to think 'oh my god he's beautiful' before his hands were cradling his nose and he was staggering, shouting "Sam!".

"Sorry, Dean." Mom marched the second guy out, hands over his head. I kept the rifle trained, nice and steady, watching him with one eye and Mom with the other.

I don't know exactly why my mind didn't click with the names, except they were still kids in my head. I was still so young when John stopped coming in. Even when John disappeared and we started hearing the stories about the Winchester boys and the swath they were cutting through the creepy-crawlies, I still didn't really believe it. I mean, I knew it was real, but I think that a part of my head still saw them as the cute little boys in the picture John showed me one night when no one was looking. In any case, I totally missed it. Even when Mom said 'Winchester'. Maybe that second look at that handsome face stopped my brain. It certainly seems to have had that effect since.

When the connection came, it was all I could do to just stare and try not to actually catch flies. Dean, and Sam. John's boys.

Not so much boys, anymore.

Then... John, dead. No way. Not John. Of everyone, not John. I forced my face into nothingness. Not sure where to look, I accidentally caught Sam's gaze.

Of all the hunters who came through that door, John was the only one who ever had kind eyes. Until Sam. And that sadness deep inside, their shape, their colour; it was all John. I looked away, fast, and pretended not to notice.

As my mom talked, I started looking at Dean, out of the corner of my eye. Even with the swelling on his nose, he looked amazing. All those hunters, all those years, all those men I turned down cause to date hunters is to court heartache... all those reasons disappeared in a puff of insignificance. In looking at Dean, I saw that coldness, that ruthlessness, and that same predatory nature that drove all the others.

And what can I say?

I didn't care.

You've seen him. Would you? If you had him there, right _there_, would all that rage matter in the least? Would it be a reason to turn away? Or a reason to get closer?

I'd seen enough male interest to recognize it when it was turned my way. Hell, ninety nine percent of the people who came through our bar were men, and after a few drinks they'd hit on anything. Believe me, I didn't take the experience as some kind of a great validation of my attractiveness, though I'm also not an idiot. I know what blonde hair an a slim body does to guys. And what I saw in Dean's eyes was interest. Banked, shuttered, reluctant. But interest nonetheless.

I'm not used to making the first move. Hell, I'm not used to making any move. If there is one thing you learn growing up around that kind of testosterone, it's that it's all bullshit. Of course, having a mom handy with a shotgun helped too. But, damn it all... I could tell he wouldn't be saying anything. And, again, damn it ALL... I had to know.

"So. Am I going to see you again?" What the hell was that? What am I, TWELVE?

"Do you want to?" Ok. Is he twelve too?

Christ yes, I want to. Don't leave now. Take me with you. Just... come back. "I wouldn't hate it." Great. Now I'm twelve, and being coy, AND my mom is listening.

"Can I be honest with you?" My stomach sank to my feet. "Normally, I'd be hitting on you so fast your head would spin, but lately..." The sick feeling was still there, but I could tell... I really needed to listen to this. I thought of John, of the warmth in his eyes when he talked about his boys, and I thought of the anguish on Sam's face when he'd talked about his dad. I thought about my dad.

And I got it. Totally. Utterly. Completely.

"Wrong place, wrong time?" I smiled, and it was real. "It's ok, I get it." There'd be another time.

I'm not someone who can just let something lay there. I knew I'd be testing over and over to find out if that time had arrived yet; based on this effort it would probably be high school all over again. But I'd be damned if I'd give up.

I knew John Winchester all my life, and he told me that if his boys ever walked through that door it would mean there was something out there bigger and badder than him. Damned if he wasn't right.

But if that thing is out there, I'd rather be with the people with the best chance of beating it. And I can tell you, if there is any way out there to kill this thing, Dean Winchester will find it. If I can be, I'll be there. For John. For my Dad. For Sam. For Dean.

For me.

I mean, you've seen him. Wouldn't you?

**End**


End file.
